Bill Cures A Headache
by LoveyHowl
Summary: It's been a day for Virginia. She's angry. She's stressed. She has a headache. And there's work to be done.


Masters of Sex S2E5

I own nothing.

Bill Cures A Headache

* * *

"Hello, Mrs. Holden."

"Hello, Mr. Holden."

Bill was seated on the edge of the bed not watching the insipid show that was playing on the television when Virginia walked in.

"I missed you at the office this afternoon."

"It was an emergency, Bill, I told you that..." Virginia began defensively.

"I'm not...attacking you, Virginia...all I'm saying is that—"

"Just...drop it...Bill..." Virginia gave a heavy, irritated sigh as she took off her coat and hung it up.

"You're obviously angry about something, Virginia—whatever it is, I regret that it has you so upset, but please don't take out it on me."

"Really? Bill? This?" she asked incredulously as she whipped around from the coat rack to face him again. "From the man who threw me against a wall last week and ravaged me like a Neanderthal at the end of a bad day on the hunt?"

"If I recall correctly, Mrs. Johnson, you told me that you enjoyed that little interlude—very much..." he replied coldly before he finished the last of his drink in a short, angry gulp. "Not that I actually needed to—hear—your words," he added snarkily as his eyes darted her way and then quickly back to the television, "in order to obtain corroboration..."

Virginia grabbed her clipboard and stopwatch from her bag and sat down angrily in her usual seat across from the bed. Bill watched her intently, then, waiting for her to sling a sarcastic remark back at him but she remained silent and sour, her luscious mouth offering him its crimson seduction in the form of a bottom-heavy pout.

That mouth. Her mouth. His eyes darted away from her again.

He was more than fixated on it; had always been fixated on it, from the moment he had first seen her in the bull pen, long before Ethan Haas came at him, excitedly singing the praises of her expertise in the art of fellatio, the insufferable cad. Her mouth, in any incarnation of expression, that made his world shift; ever so imperceptibly, yet jarring enough to make him feel, impossibly, that time really could be made to stand still just for him; allowing him to savor her and lose himself in the possibility of her: her genuine smile; her apprehensive scowl; that sly little smirk that inevitably accompanied her every victorious accomplishment, profound or mundane. Her mouth, that had shown him for the first time in his life just how joyous a woman's orgasm could be, captured on film, no less; a film that he revisited often and could always be counted upon to catch him up in her sway again, that always left him wanting, more than anything else in the world, to be the man that could bring _that _smile to her face.

Her mouth, that she had used to kiss every inch of his body—pleasure—every part of his body—except one.

Yes, he had to watch himself with that, looking too long at Virginia. In the beginning he had done well, most of the time, not to look at her at all, especially when they were in the presence of others. It had been torture at Washington, trying to ignore Virginia; trying not to let his eyes linger, even a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, lest he be found out, in spite of his clipped words and clinical, always professional demeanor. Virginia was not a woman to be ignored. Thank God for office doors. And drapes. And blinds. Anything that one could find refuge behind—blessed, blessed privacy—to savor the possibility of Virginia.

"You didn't explain and I didn't press," he began calmly, "but I was curious, of course—are the children alright?"

"The children are fine, I had another matter to attend to, now really, Bill, can we drop it?"

He looked over at her to find her massaging both temples with her fingers, her eyes closed shut, her frustration rolling off of her in palpable waves. "Virginia?"

His voice came at her so softly and full of such genuine concern that she had to look up and face him.

"Are _you_...alright?"

Her facial features softened just a little bit at him as her hands left her temple and took firm, almost defiant hold of the clipboard that had been threatening to fall from her lap. "I'm...I'm fine, Bill, thank you for asking."

"Of course."

They stared uncomfortably at one another for a brief moment and then cast their eyes away from each other and went back to their own separate thoughts.

What was it about her? He'd racked his brains many a night trying to figure it out, amazed that his thought processes had been so magnificently hijacked, for that was what he felt like: Virginia's captive. A happy captive. Happy. That was a foreign word in his vast vocabulary and he felt great shame at that fact.

So many nights, after he had first seen her and especially after their first meeting in his office, she was there in his thoughts, when he should have been concentrating his attentions on Libby, or his work, or a myriad of other things that beckoned for his proper and ordained attention; in his thoughts, there she was, always, done up in buttons and high collars; dresses and skirts that hugged her body like well-worn gloves—inured to every curve yet not completely giving them all up to complete public consumption; the shade of a second skin paraded about under the guise of comfort and propriety; sensible shoes, stylish yet economical—practical—made for running after children as she rushes them to the car to get them to school; shoes that always find her teetering on delicate tip-toes, just a hair away from falling off of the precipice of her day, but help her to land softly when she comes tumbling into his, carrying her to his office and back into his reality.

Yes, she was always there, prancing primly about on his synapses, firing the sparks of his desire and sending them out to every nerve in his body because he had seen through her facade before she even dared to entertain the notion of dropping it, willingly, for him.

And still he couldn't answer the question. What was it about her? What was it about _her_? Of course she was intelligent and intuitive—she was a natural-born researcher; she had a wonderful way with the patients; even the idea of a challenge was like an aphrodisiac to her; and knowledge was more than power with her, it seemed to him—it was vindication. Her enthusiasm for the work was an aphrodisiac for him, so of course there was that. But Bill had been exposed to brilliant female minds before, and a handful of excellent women doctors in other areas of medical expertise before he was married—and they had been quite attractive. Yet he had looked at none of them as dating material, nor they him, let alone anything more intimate.

Of course it was more than the work. While Virginia wasn't a conventional beauty she was alluring, nonetheless. Something about her reminded him of the dark-haired pin-up girl named Bettie Page; maybe it was the bangs, because Virginia was far from voluptuous; she was almost too thin, but somehow the meat on her bones managed to coalesce very nicely, thank you, in all of the right places. All of the right places. He let his mind wander then to all of her right places.

Certainly, it was the dark hair, her pale skin; but there was also that naughty/nice duality going on in that smile of hers that he noticed when she had given it to Ethan as he hung about on her first day at Washington, like a vulture patiently waiting for the propitious moment to devour its prize. Bettie Page had that in intriguing abundance. He'd seen some of her films during the early days of his study, thanks to Betty DiMello. There she would be, in stark black and white, holding a riding crop while adorned in sinful black lace lingerie and deadly high heels; her body, designed by God, made to help anyone who dared lose themselves in a vast ocean of voyeuristic pleasure; peering at her audience with a smile, looking like a proud, happy mother bent over a fresh-baked and perfect birthday cake, instead of another beauty bound like a rodeo steer, gagged and choking back horrified screams as Bettie turns to her and growls, clawed hands sporting three-inch long, pointy nails, pawing at the other scantily-clad woman before she finally lashes her with the crop. It was the same quality that he had recognized in Virginia.

Bill had been annoyed at hearing Ethan gushing about her; had not appreciated his kiss-and-tell mentality one iota—but his private and much contemplated assessment of Virginia had been correct; and Bill knew immediately, and just as surely, that Ethan was woefully and completely out of his league with a woman like her.

_Maybe I am, as well..._he thought wryly to himself. Bill had never experienced such a level of attraction to any woman before, not even Libby.

Libby. She was beautiful. She was bright. There had been a time, early in their relationship, when she had not worn all of her insecurities so prominently on her sleeves. She had always been on a quest to provide the family for herself that she had been deprived of; she wanted a father, as well, to replace the one that had abandoned her. Bill had been more than aware of his wife's troubled background, much more than she had been aware of his, but they had settled well-enough into the roles that society dictated all adult men and women should aspire to.

Bill had always been serious and focused on his work and Libby had been fine with that. He was an upstanding man and excellent provider; he was her first and only lover and she was more than enamored by his looks, his social standing and the happy future that seemed to loom on their shared horizon. If she had been honest with herself she would have easily acknowledged that their happiest days together were the early ones, when she had not been all-consumed by the desire to have a child.

Bill thought of those days more as being pleasant than happy, but he was fine with that. He was fine with her. And then, somewhere in their second married year she started calling him "Daddy". He never told her, but secretly he hated it. He didn't mind being a father-figure in her life, he liked being there for her; being the man in her life that she loved and depended on, quite enjoyed filling that role. But then, not long after she started calling him "Daddy" she endeavored to make him one, which served to make him, very decidedly, unhappy.

And then, in spite of all of his best efforts to eliminate the equation of children from his life, as wrong and as devious as his method had been, there was Johnny. Screaming, crying, fussy little Johnny. Who never screamed and cried and fussed when Coral was around, yet resumed with gusto when he was alone with Libby.

Bill realized that he'd been standing at the foot of the bed, empty glass in hand, frozen in thought for quite some time and became immediately embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Virginia—can I get you a drink?"

Virginia had been preoccupied within herself and didn't seem to notice his faux pas at all. "Yes, please—whatever it is that you're having...and make it a double."

"Coming right up..." He went to the bar and made her a double martini and another for himself. "Here you are..." he handed her drink to her and then took his to bed with him, as he settled into easy repose, propped against the headboard.

Virginia was thinking about Lillian; she wanted to tell Bill about her afternoon, but Lillian hadn't made her condition known to her colleagues at Washington officially; even though rumors were probably already running rampant after her accident in the ladies room, and even though Bill no longer worked there, she didn't want to betray Lillian's confidence in her.

It had been quite a day for Virginia; to have Lillian call her out so viciously and loudly, right there where all of the other women in the bull pen could hear and then go on later to witness her at her most vulnerable, sobbing in her embrace—yes, it had been quite a day.

And what was she angry about? She was angry with herself, actually, for she had exposed her own vulnerability and now, hours later, it was not sitting well with her. Even though she knew that her truth was safe with Lillian deep down she regretted divulging it. _I should have never admitted to participating in the study with Bill,_ she scolded herself silently. _She says that she won't judge me, but she already has; no one will ever understand what we're doing here, it just simply screams 'Affair'...period..._

"Virginia?"

She looked her question up at him.

"Are we...working...tonight?"

She nodded her head slowly then took a long sip of her drink.

"We...are? Or will I be working...alone?" he asked her tentatively.

"Maybe I'll be working alone."

Bill raised an eyebrow at her.

She finished off her drink and then went to join him on the bed with her clipboard in hand. "Did you know, Bill, that a woman can orgasm during childbirth?" she asked him as she got comfortable beside him.

"Uh, yes...I've read that although I've never seen evidence of it myself."

"Well, you wouldn't, now would you? Certainly not without the necessary tools to measure the data..."

"I don't know that I would particularly _care _to measure that data, Virginia..." he said dryly. "There are so many other things going on during childbirth...dangerous things..."

"Yes, that is true. Did you know that a woman can orgasm when she's breastfeeding her child, Bill?"

"Yes, I am also aware of that fact Virginia—do you have...a baby...waiting to be brought up to the room tonight?" he joked her awkwardly. "I...I don't understand—"

"It's merely physiological—"

"Of course—sensual, more than sexual..."

"Yes. Did you know that a woman can orgasm by delaying urination?"

"Where are you, uh, going with this, Virginia? Other than to prove, yet again, how truly unnecessary men can be...when it comes to the many ways a woman can pleasure herself independently..."

"But have you? Heard of that?"

"Yes, I have; the first known reports were gathered in a study addressing incontinence, particularly, causes attributing to it; one group, several women, secretaries, bus drivers—people employed in sedentary jobs and or jobs that did not allow them regular rest periods—sometimes no rest periods at all—found that they experienced the phenomena and found it pleasurable, as long as they were able to actually get to a rest room and not urinate on themselves. You must have gotten your hands on a copy?"

"No."

"Then...you've...experienced these things...yourself?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"Has anyone ever done a study on the instigative effects of fellatio as it pertains to the vagina?

"Uh...what?" he shook his head at her, completely and hopelessly confused.

"It's why some women can perform fellatio with the endurance usually attributed to long-distance runners and the like...athletes...if you will..."

"Uh..." Bill chugged the rest of his drink down and set the glass loudly upon the bedside night table. "Really..."

"Really."

"I thought you were angry...earlier..."

"I was. I still am. This particular area of study—well, we have yet to explore it as fully as I'm capable of...I also have a headache."

_I also have a headache..._Bill tried to ignore his growing erection and placed one of the pillows that had been behind his back across his lap. "A headache? What—"

"Well, I haven't seen any studies addressing it to date, but I find that fellatio, typically, works much better at dispelling my headaches than aspirin ever has."

An involuntary little choked guffaw escaped Bill then. "You're pulling my leg, Virginia, surely..."

"Not yet, but I'm about to..." she removed the pillow from Bill's lap, then got up from the bed.

"Where are you—"

"Over here, Bill...buttocks on horizontal structure, legs apart and horizontal, shins vertical to the ground..." she directed him very clinically.

"The chair..."

"Yes, Bill, the chair—hurry, please, this headache is killing me."

Bill rushed over to the chair and sat obediently before her.

"You forgot the clipboard, Dr. Masters."

"Oh...of course..." flustered, he rushed back to retrieve it and was back just as quickly. "Alright."

"Good." Virginia handed him her pen from the table beside the chair and then the stopwatch.

"How will I gauge the...instigative effects of your vagina? What intervals?" he asked her, totally perplexed yet masking his happy intrigue behind a truly inspired rendition of his best clinical poker face.

"With your fingers...or your tongue...or your penis—preferably, all of the above, when I tell you..."

"I think...that I can...manage that..." he said as he began to slip into full research mode.

"Good." Virginia raised his hand holding the stopwatch and then slowly caressed the length of his body with her hands as she journeyed to her knees, she looked up at him from the floor with her big, beautiful green eyes and waited.

Bill looked down at her, sitting there before his glorious ready erection, and found it impossible to break his gaze away from hers; still she was silent, waiting. Finally that smirk that he loved to see on her face so much made its appearance. Inside, his heart was dancing—this was the night—this was the night he would cut through her steely resolve and gain her trust; this was the night that he would possess those luscious lips with his own, at last.

She waited.

Had anyone dared to walk in on them they would swear that they were looking upon two people engaged in sure battle. They actually were, he realized. He took a deep breath; his eyes upon her were cold, resolute, and as sterile as an immaculate, white operating theater; and if he was the theater then she was the surgeon, about to perform a life-saving procedure that would deliver them both from the pain of their denial of each other. He pressed the button hard on the stopwatch and gave his firm command.

"Begin."


End file.
